


but man is not made for defeat, a man can be destroyed but not defeated

by completist



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Masturbation, pls go see the art and fic that inspired this!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 16:33:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17267552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/completist/pseuds/completist
Summary: Blanca hates how much he feels, hates how his senses dictate his thoughts, hates his mind and its precise but cruel calculations, hates it even when they are his own greatest tools.“Sir?” Blanca does not feel threatened physically, but he does not like the way Yut-lung hovers over him—unsure of what he wants, his own desires unclear even to him.based onthis art by butleronice





	but man is not made for defeat, a man can be destroyed but not defeated

**Author's Note:**

  * For [butleronduty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/butleronduty/gifts).
  * Inspired by [oh, won't you break me now so i won't feel the pain?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16407845) by [knoxoursavior](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoxoursavior/pseuds/knoxoursavior). 



> based on the gorgeous (read: full of feels) art by butleronice on tumblr! Check out their [twitter here.](http://twitter.com/butleronduty) This is my first time writing for Banana Fish, and seeing the art and [singeiji's](https://twitter.com/singeiji) fic rlly inspired me to work on this fic!
> 
> pls check out the art and the fic that inspired this which is on Yue's pov, while this one is on Blanca's, both are painful :(( so enjoy ig :((

His hand feels cold.

Yut-lung’s backhand—his slender fingers, that soft hand hitting his, didn’t sting, not a bit, but it feels cold. Blanca keeps his gaze on the closed door, hears the muffled step of Yut-lung’s men on the carpet, but not his — Yut-lung is always so silent, so light in his steps and movements; he is also always cold.

Teaching Ash years ago exposed him to a similar coldness, not the kind that needs thawing, but the kind that is precise and deadly when provoked, the kind that burns and grows until everything else around him is consumed, all but the devil behind the beautiful face, the devil lurking behind green eyes that enamored so many men he is also being taught to kill. But Yut-lung’s… _do not let your emotions control you._

Yut-lung’s coldness is familiar—suffocating and all consuming, the kind that dictates what must be done, the kind that doesn’t hide but eliminates the weakest points, expecting no room for mistake. Yut-lung’s coldness is the absence of everything, a void that grows, expanding continuously with each passing day—the kind that makes you do nothing but fall and hurt. Yut-lung’s coldness is the kind that thrives not only in the expense of others but also of its master.

He turns to the glass lying on the floor. Distantly, he hears a door slam close as he picks the glass up and holds it in front of him, just like Yut-lung did, with his piercing eyes a deep pool of nothing but hatred — unseeing of the present as it remains stuck on the past, hair framing his face so delicately, his body blocking the light as he looms over Blanca, making him look even more beautiful, if not exponentially deadly.

The stem of the wineglass snaps, the upper half of it falling to the floor, breaking to a million tiny pieces as he steps on it. He lets the other half slip from his hand and leaves the room.

Yut-lung’s coldness is a gaping chasm Blanca has once left, and shares once again.

Tomorrow, he’d tell Yut-lung what he had come to say. But tonight, he’d leave him alone.

 

 

Blanca opens his eyes to see Yut-lung above him. He wants to commend him for reaching this far in getting close without him noticing, but stops himself when he feels cold skin touching his arms, he stops when he reads the way Yut-lung has positioned himself above him.

“Sir?” Blanca does not feel threatened physically, but he does not like the way Yut-lung hovers over him—unsure of what he wants, his desires unclear even to him.

He feels that silky hair brush against his cheeks and remembers how soft it felt under his touch, how wavy it looks when Yut-lung lets it down and how pristine it looks when braided; feels the lithe body above him, marvels at its lightness, marvels at how beautiful and deadly it is; feels the smooth skin of his thighs on his arms as it brackets him close, as if the mere act is capable of stopping Blanca; feels the heat of him on his stomach, contrasting to the cold his touch had left earlier.

Blanca hates how much he feels, hates how his senses dictate his thoughts, hates his mind and its precise but cruel calculations, hates it even when they are his own greatest tools.

A soft hand covers his mouth, “Don’t move. Don’t speak.” A shuddering breath, and Blanca takes in the momentary flash of doubt that crossed those eyes that is telling him everything he needs to know without looking anywhere else. Tells him everything and demands he respond in a way that he can’t, the way that he won’t, because he will not stoop so low. Even if the same coldness within him melts and breaks, even if the weight of the body above him feels so achingly familiar, even if his heart speeds up.

“One word and I will kill you.”

Blanca has no doubt that Yut-lung can do that, that’s another beauty life has coaxed out of him—his mind. If Yut-lung thinks, he can. And Blanca has no doubt he already thought about it when he entered his room, when he straddled him, when he stared at Blanca as if willing him to wake up.

He sees Yut-lung’s right hand stroke himself in his periphery and tries hard not to think of how many times he did this without wanting it. Tries hard not to think if Yut-lung wants it _now_ , if Yut-lung wants Blanca’s hand on his body, touching, exploring. Tries hard not to think how it would feel to slip his hand on that neck and pull until those pink lips touches his, how it would feel to cover the hand moving— _up, down, up—_ on his cock with his and time the movement with Yut-lung’s speeding heart; how it would feel to hold that slim waist, cradle that gorgeous face and kiss away the frown until it turns into a smile, replace the creeping doubt with pleasure Yut-lung had come here to seek only because he _wants_ and nothing more; how it would feel to kiss down from his jaw to the pale column of his neck, how it would feel to touch, gently, reverently, as Yut-lung should be touched.

He blinks up at the boy above him and stops himself from standing quick. He blinks, _once, twice,_ his eyes seeking recognition in Yut-lung’s face and finds nothing. Yet, he had gone too far, too _damn_ far, and he shouldn’t have. This is madness. Yut-lung does not deserve this thinking from him, does not deserve to be thought of this way, does not deserve the dirt painted on him by those men, Yut-lung—

Yut-lung lifts his hand away from him to muffle his cries, and Blanca finds himself being left again with the coldness, hating the way his own heart betrays him and beats _faster,_ as if chasing the one above him but is carefully caged by his ribs, unable to escape because it must _not_ escape.

_Do not let your emotions control you._

He hates the way his arms leave his side, the way his hand feels on Yut-lung’s exposed thighs. It would be so easy, _too easy_ , to move his hand a couple of inches, to maneuver Yut-lung’s body like he had done so many times before so that he’s the one on top.

“Don’t move!” Yut-lung warns, but it lacks conviction.

It’s too easy to move Yut-lung away from him, so he did.

What is difficult is to see another mask break, to see those lips being stopped from trembling, to gaze upon the eyes that tries so hard not to care. He can’t imagine Yut-lung being like this to anyone, he can’t imagine why Yut-lung is being like this to _him._ Him, when Yut-lung can now get whatever he wants, can get everything and anything he desires now that he’s more powerful than any of his brother ever was; him, when Yut-lung can get something that is not more broken than him.

And so he stands up and walks away, tries hard not to think of dark hair and eyes, of soft skin and a trembling touch and muffled cries. He stands up and walks away, pretends not to hear the tell-tale ruffling of the sheets as Yut-lung closes in on himself, face buried on his knees as he hugs them close to his chest—as Blanca imagines he would.

 

 

The next day, Blanca tells him what he had wanted to say when he went to see Yut-lung last night; now void of attachment, his misplaced affection eliminated.

“It would only be making another one of us. Unloving, unloved. A sad being, living only on hatred and emptiness. Ash chose to love and die rather than hate and rule. You cannot be loved unless you love.”

Blanca stares—at the line of Yut-lung’s shoulder, the clenched hands on his sides. He stares, for what might be the last time—at the way his hair falls on the side of his face, at the angry set of his jaw, the thin line of his lips. He stares at Yut-lung, but not on his eyes. “There will be someone who will care for you and love you. You just don’t realize it.”

But it will not be him, it will not be Blanca who will learn to love alongside him.

“Goodbye.” 

**Author's Note:**

> title is a quote by Ernest Hemingway :)) 
> 
> hmu on [twitter](https://twitter.com/completist_) and [tumblr](http://queen---queer.tumblr.com/)


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